K. Marvin Bruce

  Terah and Lindsey stood death still as the feet shuffled away and they heard the door close.   They waited several minutes in case, for whatever reason, their owner had lingered outside near the garage.   When Terah spoke, it was in a whisper. “Now we’re trapped,” he lamented rather obviously. “We need to gather the supplies,” Lindsey responded. “We’re not going anywhere.” “Maybe, maybe not.   This side of the garage opens out toward the house.   Did you notice the windows last night?” “Well, yes, we tried to look through.” “How many were on the far side?” “Two.”   The Terah understood.   “The second window on this side—“ “Should be behind this shelf.   We can’t test that hypothesis until after dark, but we’ve gotta be ready to move.” A small fountain of hope began to trickle in Terah’s chest.   There could be a way out.   And maybe something more.   Something that could complicate everything.   Since they had time, they chose which supplies to take.   With Terah’s bum leg they could

  I’m a recovering academic, as my bio makes clear (I hope).   Earning a Ph.D. is a long, expensive way to get a license to write.   Or to be taken seriously, take your choice.   My academic career, sickly to start, never thrived.   Although I still write nonfiction (four books and counting), my real interest is here, in fiction-land. A friend recently pointed out to me a new journal AcademFic (which no spell-checker will accept), run out of Butler University, for publishing fiction by academics.   You may not have known that many of your professors were aspiring novelists, but let me assure you that many were. Of course, aspiring writers aren’t necessarily good writers.   I have a friend who’s an editor with an academic press.   He tells me that few academic writers are even fluent in academese.   Writers, however, sometimes end up trapped in academe. Back when I was in my master’s program, I was working on a novel.   I showed it to a friend whose father-in-law was an English profess

  A shuffling gait could be heard in the garage.   In the very dim light, Terah found Lindsey’s mouth and pressed his hand over it.   She struggled, then quickly realized what was happening.   She lay very still.   The shuffling feet took their time, as if inspecting the junk piles.   Was he looking for something, or had he found their footprints?   If he opened the door they’d not be able to get by him.   Terah couldn’t run with his leg banged up.   All they could do was wait and listen. Surely it was the homeowner.   A thief would quickly realize that finding anything of value would take far more time than it was worth, given the state of things.   Even in the flashlight earlier it was clear that this wasn’t quality stuff.   The people in the house were of modest means.   That meant that he was either after something—hopefully not in the back room—or he was suspicious and investigating.   Perhaps even arming himself.   Hadn’t Terah seen baseball bats last night, and crowbars?   The f

  Heart beating like a Dyatlov Pass student, Terah groggily looked around.   Where was she?   He couldn’t keep that damned story out of his head.   Snow was falling and although he was limping, he found her trail with the ambient light from under the clouds.   Ambient light?   They must be near a town after all!   Hobbling out, he knew he couldn’t shout.   She was only a few feet away, thrashing in the snow. “Sh, sh, sh,” he hushed, trying to quiet her.   “They’ll find us.”   Her eyes were open, wild.   She looked like she’d seen a demon.   “Sh, sh, sh.   It’s all right.”   He hugged her.   She whipped around. “Get away from me!” “Mich—Lindsey.   It’s me.   Terah.   Calm down.   You’re going to freeze to death!” Sucking in deep breaths of cool air, she came to herself.   “There was someone else in the shelter with us!”   Terah turned back.   The fire had gone out.   The blanket was still around his shoulders.   He wrapped her up in it.   “I’ll take a look.”   His lighter wasn’t much of

  Persistence.   Although 27 doesn’t exactly equate to a tonne, it is a respectable number of stories to have published.   In addition to The Space between Atoms this week—it’ll be up soon!—I have had another acceptance to celebrate. “Christmas Wish” has been accepted by Calliope , one of my favorite places to publish.   They seem to get my offbeat sense of humor.   This story came to me out of the blue and I wrote it very quickly. I then sent it to a zine that didn’t have the courtesy even to reply.   I then saw a themed issue for a horror zine that looked promising.   They were doing a holiday issue and all I had to do was shift the tale from summer to winter, and presto!   It was a Christmas story. The themed magazine liked it, but they said it had too much humor in it.   That sometimes happens when I write horror.   (Not always, as is implied by “sometimes”.)   This one was guilty as charged.   It is a fun story, I hope. My next thought was Calliope .   Now, I’m not a member of ME

  Terah and Mich huddled near a meager fire as the dark settled in.   On some level they both realized they’d need to find more proper shelter before reaching St. Grosstestes.   Terah had guessed in the light of day that Mich was female.   The constant shadow of the asylum meant he never had much in the way of visual cues.   She, for her part, had good reason for keeping the truth hidden.   Now with Terah requiring some tending, and the practicalities of biological functions, she had to be honest. “This doesn’t change anything,” Terah assured her. “Why should it?” she asked.   “It ain’t like were Eve and Adam.   I just figured you should know.” “My apologies for being so crude back in Honest Oahusha.” “It ain’t like I never seen a dick before.   I just don’t want ya thinkin’ that now I’ve seen yers I want it or anything.   I don’t.” “I didn’t assume.   We’ve got our work cut out for us with all these complications.”   He rubbed his leg.   “We’ve got to find suitable shelter.   A place